two hundred and seven words. 9

by kvennarad

hen asked what their favourite colour is, no child will pick one that is a combination of two others; tell the girl that black represents no colour and white all colours, and she may half-raise her hand, she may look askance out of the window, she may lower her hand and then her eyes, remaining silent, but unconvinced, sinful in her mind that if that were true then neither block could be made for her paint tin, as each would be an impossibility; at break-time, while others run for milk, she circulates – as though a hostess at a party – asking each friend to choose, daring any to say orange or purple, stopped – as though a stone in a field – by the older girl who raises a cynical eyebrow and murmurs “Magenta,” which she does not believe; looking over the school wall at the fields and marveling that with such an abundance of chlorophyll no one defies the rule, and deciding that the leaves and grass are the product of mixing the shines of yellow sun and blue sky, and not of some feeble, boring science – better even to blame God for it, and for the wind that causes the trees, trapped giants’ fists, to threaten out of